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    <title>1. CHAPTER VI</title>
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    <div class="chapter" id="id1038432"><h2>1. CHAPTER VI</h2>


<p id="id1038438"><span id="id578394"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->

After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and
Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification
of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. 
No such importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores
at present.  In the daily interchange of news, they must be again
restricted to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings’
coming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill,
whose health seemed every day to supply a different report,
and the situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped
might eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child,
as that of all her neighbours was by the approach of it.
</p>

<p id="id1038441"><span id="id578401"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed.  It was the delay of a great
deal of pleasure and parade.  Her introductions and recommendations
must all wait, and every projected party be still only talked of. 
So she thought at first;—but a little consideration convinced
her that every thing need not be put off.  Why should not they
explore to Box Hill though the Sucklings did not come?  They could
go there again with them in the autumn.  It was settled that they
should go to Box Hill.  That there was to be such a party had been
long generally known:  it had even given the idea of another. 
Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body
found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed
to chuse some fine morning and drive thither.  Two or three more
of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to
be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior
to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking,
and picnic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.
</p>

<p id="id1038444"><span id="id578412"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could
not but feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing
from Mr. Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her
brother and sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite,
and go together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded
to it, so it was to be, if she had no objection.  Now, as her
objection was nothing but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton,
of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly aware, it was not worth
bringing forward again:—it could not be done without a reproof
to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and she found
herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which she
would have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which would
probably expose her even to the degradation of being said to be of
Mrs. Elton’s party!  Every feeling was offended; and the forbearance
of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity
in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston’s temper.
</p>

<p id="id1038385"><span id="id578409"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I am glad you approve of what I have done,” said he very comfortably. 
“But I thought you would.  Such schemes as these are nothing
without numbers.  One cannot have too large a party.  A large party
secures its own amusement.  And she is a good-natured woman after all. 
One could not leave her out.”
</p>

<p id="id1038451"><span id="id578421"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.
</p>

<p id="id1038457"><span id="id578429"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton
was growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston
as to pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw
every thing into sad uncertainty.  It might be weeks, it might be
only a few days, before the horse were useable; but no preparations
could be ventured on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. 
Mrs. Elton’s resources were inadequate to such an attack.
</p>

<p id="id1038460"><span id="id578436"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Is not this most vexations, Knightley?” she cried.—“And such weather
for exploring!—These delays and disappointments are quite odious. 
What are we to do?—The year will wear away at this rate,
and nothing done.  Before this time last year I assure you we had
had a delightful exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston.”
</p>

<p id="id1038463"><span id="id578443"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“You had better explore to Donwell,” replied Mr. Knightley. 
“That may be done without horses.  Come, and eat my strawberries. 
They are ripening fast.”
</p>

<p id="id1038448"><span id="id578456"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so,
for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the “Oh!  I should
like it of all things,” was not plainer in words than manner. 
Donwell was famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for
the invitation:  but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have
been enough to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. 
She promised him again and again to come—much oftener than
he doubted—and was extremely gratified by such a proof of intimacy,
such a distinguishing compliment as she chose to consider it.
</p>

<p id="id1038475"><span id="id578465"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“You may depend upon me,” said she.  “I certainly will come. 
Name your day, and I will come.  You will allow me to bring
Jane Fairfax?”
</p>

<p id="id1038473"><span id="id578474"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I cannot name a day,” said he, “till I have spoken to some others
whom I would wish to meet you.”
</p>

<p id="id1038490"><span id="id578485"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh! leave all that to me.  Only give me a carte-blanche.—I am
Lady Patroness, you know.  It is my party.  I will bring friends
with me.”
</p>

<p id="id1038498"><span id="id578497"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I hope you will bring Elton,” said he:  “but I will not trouble
you to give any other invitations.”
</p>

<p id="id1038504"><span id="id578507"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh! now you are looking very sly.  But consider—you need not be afraid
of delegating power to me.  I am no young lady on her preferment. 
Married women, you know, may be safely authorised.  It is my party. 
Leave it all to me.  I will invite your guests.”
</p>

<p id="id1038512"><span id="id578514"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“No,“—he calmly replied,—”there is but one married woman in the world
whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell,
and that one is—“
</p>

<p id="id1038520"><span id="id578526"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“—Mrs. Weston, I suppose,” interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.
</p>

<p id="id1038526"><span id="id578535"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“No—Mrs. Knightley;—and till she is in being, I will manage
such matters myself.”
</p>

<p id="id1038484"><span id="id578545"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Ah! you are an odd creature!” she cried, satisfied to have no
one preferred to herself.—“You are a humourist, and may say what
you like.  Quite a humourist.  Well, I shall bring Jane with me—
Jane and her aunt.—The rest I leave to you.  I have no objections
at all to meeting the Hartfield family.  Don’t scruple.  I know
you are attached to them.”
</p>

<p id="id1038534"><span id="id578552"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call
on Miss Bates in my way home.”
</p>

<p id="id1038542"><span id="id578562"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“That’s quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:—but as you like. 
It is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. 
I shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets
hanging on my arm.  Here,—probably this basket with pink ribbon. 
Nothing can be more simple, you see.  And Jane will have such another. 
There is to be no form or parade—a sort of gipsy party.  We are
to walk about your gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves,
and sit under trees;—and whatever else you may like to provide,
it is to be all out of doors—a table spread in the shade, you know. 
Every thing as natural and simple as possible.  Is not that your idea?”
</p>

<p id="id1038545"><span id="id578568"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Not quite.  My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have
the table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity
of gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think
is best observed by meals within doors.  When you are tired of eating
strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house.”
</p>

<p id="id1038549"><span id="id578575"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Well—as you please; only don’t have a great set out.  And, by the bye,
can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?—
Pray be sincere, Knightley.  If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges,
or to inspect anything—”
</p>

<p id="id1038552"><span id="id578590"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I have not the least wish for it, I thank you.”
</p>

<p id="id1038536"><span id="id578598"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Well—but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper
is extremely clever.”
</p>

<p id="id1038568"><span id="id578608"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever,
and would spurn any body’s assistance.”
</p>

<p id="id1038576"><span id="id578618"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I wish we had a donkey.  The thing would be for us all to come
on donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me—and my caro sposo walking by. 
I really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey.  In a country
life I conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have
ever so many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut
up at home;—and very long walks, you know—in summer there is dust,
and in winter there is dirt.”
</p>

<p id="id1038579"><span id="id578625"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. 
Donwell Lane is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry.  Come on
a donkey, however, if you prefer it.  You can borrow Mrs. Cole’s.
I would wish every thing to be as much to your taste as possible.”
</p>

<p id="id1038570"><span id="id578632"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“That I am sure you would.  Indeed I do you justice, my good friend. 
Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the
warmest heart.  As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist.—
Yes, believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention
to me in the whole of this scheme.  You have hit upon the very thing
to please me.”
</p>

<p id="id1038586"><span id="id578638"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. 
He wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party;
and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors
to eat would inevitably make him ill.  Mr. Woodhouse must not,
under the specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two
spent at Donwell, be tempted away to his misery.
</p>

<p id="id1038589"><span id="id578652"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
He was invited on good faith.  No lurking horrors were to upbraid
him for his easy credulity.  He did consent.  He had not been
at Donwell for two years.  “Some very fine morning, he, and Emma,
and Harriet, could go very well; and he could sit still with
Mrs. Weston, while the dear girls walked about the gardens. 
He did not suppose they could be damp now, in the middle of
the day.  He should like to see the old house again exceedingly,
and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and any other
of his neighbours.—He could not see any objection at all to his,
and Emma’s, and Harriet’s going there some very fine morning. 
He thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them—
very kind and sensible—much cleverer than dining out.—He was not
fond of dining out.”
</p>

<p id="id1038592"><span id="id578661"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body’s most ready concurrence. 
The invitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemed as if,
like Mrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular
compliment to themselves.—Emma and Harriet professed very high
expectations of pleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked,
promised to get Frank over to join them, if possible; a proof
of approbation and gratitude which could have been dispensed with.—
Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say that he should be glad
to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in writing,
and spare no arguments to induce him to come.
</p>

<p id="id1038595"><span id="id578667"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party
to Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell
was settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,—the weather
appearing exactly right.
</p>

<p id="id1038598"><span id="id578682"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse
was safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down,
to partake of this al-fresco party; and in one of the most
comfortable rooms in the Abbey, especially prepared for him by a
fire all the morning, he was happily placed, quite at his ease,
ready to talk with pleasure of what had been achieved, and advise
every body to come and sit down, and not to heat themselves.—
Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on purpose to be tired,
and sit all the time with him, remained, when all the others
were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and sympathiser.
</p>

<p id="id1038583"><span id="id578673"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she
was satisfied of her father’s comfort, she was glad to leave him,
and look around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with
more particular observation, more exact understanding of a house
and grounds which must ever be so interesting to her and all her family.
</p>

<p id="id1038610"><span id="id578695"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance
with the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant,
as she viewed the respectable size and style of the building,
its suitable, becoming, characteristic situation, low and sheltered—
its ample gardens stretching down to meadows washed by a stream,
of which the Abbey, with all the old neglect of prospect,
had scarcely a sight—and its abundance of timber in rows and avenues,
which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted up.—The house
was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it, covering a good
deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many comfortable,
and one or two handsome rooms.—It was just what it ought to be,
and it looked what it was—and Emma felt an increasing respect
for it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility,
untainted in blood and understanding.—Some faults of temper John
Knightley had; but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. 
She had given them neither men, nor names, nor places, that could
raise a blush.  These were pleasant feelings, and she walked about
and indulged them till it was necessary to do as the others did,
and collect round the strawberry-beds.—The whole party were assembled,
excepting Frank Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond;
and Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet
and her basket, was very ready to lead the way in gathering,
accepting, or talking—strawberries, and only strawberries,
could now be thought or spoken of.—“The best fruit in England—
every body’s favourite—always wholesome.—These the finest beds
and finest sorts.—Delightful to gather for one’s self—the only way
of really enjoying them.—Morning decidedly the best time—never tired—
every sort good—hautboy infinitely superior—no comparison—
the others hardly eatable—hautboys very scarce—Chili preferred—
white wood finest flavour of all—price of strawberries in London—
abundance about Bristol—Maple Grove—cultivation—beds when to
be renewed—gardeners thinking exactly different—no general rule—
gardeners never to be put out of their way—delicious fruit—
only too rich to be eaten much of—inferior to cherries—
currants more refreshing—only objection to gathering strawberries
the stooping—glaring sun—tired to death—could bear it no longer—
must go and sit in the shade.”
</p>

<p id="id1038613"><span id="id578700"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Such, for half an hour, was the conversation—interrupted only
once by Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her
son-in-law, to inquire if he were come—and she was a little uneasy.—
She had some fears of his horse.
</p>

<p id="id1038608"><span id="id578715"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged
to overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of.—
A situation, a most desirable situation, was in question.  Mrs. Elton
had received notice of it that morning, and was in raptures. 
It was not with Mrs. Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge,
but in felicity and splendour it fell short only of them:  it was
with a cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling,
a lady known at Maple Grove.  Delightful, charming, superior,
first circles, spheres, lines, ranks, every thing—and Mrs. Elton
was wild to have the offer closed with immediately.—On her side,
all was warmth, energy, and triumph—and she positively refused
to take her friend’s negative, though Miss Fairfax continued
to assure her that she would not at present engage in any thing,
repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge before.—
Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an acquiescence
by the morrow’s post.—How Jane could bear it at all, was astonishing
to Emma.—She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly—and at last,
with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a removal.—
“Should not they walk?  Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the gardens—
all the gardens?—She wished to see the whole extent.”—The pertinacity
of her friend seemed more than she could bear.
</p>

<p id="id1038625"><span id="id578724"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a scattered,
dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly
followed one another to the delicious shade of a broad short
avenue of limes, which stretching beyond the garden at an equal
distance from the river, seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds.—
It led to nothing; nothing but a view at the end over a low stone
wall with high pillars, which seemed intended, in their erection,
to give the appearance of an approach to the house, which never had
been there.  Disputable, however, as might be the taste of such
a termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and the view
which closed it extremely pretty.—The considerable slope, at nearly
the foot of which the Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper
form beyond its grounds; and at half a mile distant was a bank
of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well clothed with wood;—
and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed and sheltered,
rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the river
making a close and handsome curve around it.
</p>

<p id="id1038628"><span id="id578728"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind.  English verdure,
English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright,
without being oppressive.
</p>

<p id="id1038632"><span id="id578740"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled;
and towards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley
and Harriet distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way. 
Mr. Knightley and Harriet!—It was an odd tete-a-tete; but she was
glad to see it.—There had been a time when he would have scorned
her as a companion, and turned from her with little ceremony. 
Now they seemed in pleasant conversation.  There had been a time
also when Emma would have been sorry to see Harriet in a spot
so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm; but now she feared it not. 
It might be safely viewed with all its appendages of prosperity
and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in blossom,
and light column of smoke ascending.—She joined them at the wall,
and found them more engaged in talking than in looking around. 
He was giving Harriet information as to modes of agriculture, etc. 
and Emma received a smile which seemed to say, “These are my
own concerns.  I have a right to talk on such subjects, without being
suspected of introducing Robert Martin.”—She did not suspect him. 
It was too old a story.—Robert Martin had probably ceased to think
of Harriet.—They took a few turns together along the walk.—The shade
was most refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of
the day.
</p>

<p id="id1038640"><span id="id578750"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
The next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat;—
and they were all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did
not come.  Mrs. Weston looked, and looked in vain.  His father would
not own himself uneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could
not be cured of wishing that he would part with his black mare. 
He had expressed himself as to coming, with more than common certainty. 
“His aunt was so much better, that he had not a doubt of getting
over to them.”—Mrs. Churchill’s state, however, as many were ready
to remind her, was liable to such sudden variation as might disappoint
her nephew in the most reasonable dependence—and Mrs. Weston
was at last persuaded to believe, or to say, that it must be
by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented coming.—
Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under consideration;
she behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.
</p>

<p id="id1038643"><span id="id578748"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more
to see what had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds;
perhaps get as far as the clover, which was to be begun cutting
on the morrow, or, at any rate, have the pleasure of being hot,
and growing cool again.—Mr. Woodhouse, who had already taken
his little round in the highest part of the gardens, where no
damps from the river were imagined even by him, stirred no more;
and his daughter resolved to remain with him, that Mrs. Weston
might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise and variety
which her spirits seemed to need.
</p>

<p id="id1038646"><span id="id578760"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse’s
entertainment.  Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos,
corals, shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets,
had been prepared for his old friend, to while away the morning;
and the kindness had perfectly answered.  Mr. Woodhouse had been
exceedingly well amused.  Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him,
and now he would shew them all to Emma;—fortunate in having no other
resemblance to a child, than in a total want of taste for what he saw,
for he was slow, constant, and methodical.—Before this second looking
over was begun, however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake
of a few moments’ free observation of the entrance and ground-plot
of the house—and was hardly there, when Jane Fairfax appeared,
coming quickly in from the garden, and with a look of escape.—
Little expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start
at first; but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she was in quest of.
</p>

<p id="id1038618"><span id="id578767"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Will you be so kind,” said she, “when I am missed, as to say
that I am gone home?—I am going this moment.—My aunt is not aware
how late it is, nor how long we have been absent—but I am sure we
shall be wanted, and I am determined to go directly.—I have said
nothing about it to any body.  It would only be giving trouble
and distress.  Some are gone to the ponds, and some to the lime walk. 
Till they all come in I shall not be missed; and when they do,
will you have the goodness to say that I am gone?”
</p>

<p id="id1038650"><span id="id578774"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Certainly, if you wish it;—but you are not going to walk
to Highbury alone?”
</p>

<p id="id1038654"><span id="id578784"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Yes—what should hurt me?—I walk fast.  I shall be at home
in twenty minutes.”
</p>

<p id="id1038663"><span id="id578794"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. 
Let my father’s servant go with you.—Let me order the carriage. 
It can be round in five minutes.”
</p>

<p id="id1038670"><span id="id578806"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Thank you, thank you—but on no account.—I would rather walk.—
And for me to be afraid of walking alone!—I, who may so soon have
to guard others!”
</p>

<p id="id1038680"><span id="id578818"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied,
“That can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. 
I must order the carriage.  The heat even would be danger.—You are
fatigued already.”
</p>

<p id="id1038687"><span id="id578834"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I am,”—she answered—“I am fatigued; but it is not the sort
of fatigue—quick walking will refresh me.—Miss Woodhouse, we all
know at times what it is to be wearied in spirits.  Mine, I confess,
are exhausted.  The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let
me have my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.”
</p>

<p id="id1038673"><span id="id578840"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Emma had not another word to oppose.  She saw it all; and entering
into her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately,
and watched her safely off with the zeal of a friend.  Her parting
look was grateful—and her parting words, “Oh!  Miss Woodhouse,
the comfort of being sometimes alone!”—seemed to burst from
an overcharged heart, and to describe somewhat of the continual
endurance to be practised by her, even towards some of those who
loved her best.
</p>

<p id="id1038694"><span id="id578850"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!” said Emma, as she turned back
into the hall again.  “I do pity you.  And the more sensibility
you betray of their just horrors, the more I shall like you.”
</p>

<p id="id1038697"><span id="id578847"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only
accomplished some views of St. Mark’s Place, Venice, when Frank
Churchill entered the room.  Emma had not been thinking of him,
she had forgotten to think of him—but she was very glad to see him. 
Mrs. Weston would be at ease.  The black mare was blameless;
they were right who had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause. 
He had been detained by a temporary increase of illness in her;
a nervous seizure, which had lasted some hours—and he had quite given
up every thought of coming, till very late;—and had he known how hot
a ride he should have, and how late, with all his hurry, he must be,
he believed he should not have come at all.  The heat was excessive;
he had never suffered any thing like it—almost wished he had staid
at home—nothing killed him like heat—he could bear any degree of cold,
etc., but heat was intolerable—and he sat down, at the greatest
possible distance from the slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse’s fire,
looking very deplorable.
</p>

<p id="id1038691"><span id="id578868"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,” said Emma.
</p>

<p id="id1038709"><span id="id578876"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again.  I could very
ill be spared—but such a point had been made of my coming! 
You will all be going soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up. 
I met one as I came—Madness in such weather!—absolute madness!”
</p>

<p id="id1038712"><span id="id578881"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill’s
state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being
out of humour.  Some people were always cross when they were hot. 
Such might be his constitution; and as she knew that eating
and drinking were often the cure of such incidental complaints,
she recommended his taking some refreshment; he would find abundance
of every thing in the dining-room—and she humanely pointed out
the door.
</p>

<p id="id1038717"><span id="id578890"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“No—he should not eat.  He was not hungry; it would only make
him hotter.”  In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour;
and muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off.  Emma returned
all her attention to her father, saying in secret—
</p>

<p id="id1038720"><span id="id578896"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I am glad I have done being in love with him.  I should not like a
man who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning.  Harriet’s sweet
easy temper will not mind it.”
</p>

<p id="id1038733"><span id="id578908"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came
back all the better—grown quite cool—and, with good manners,
like himself—able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest
in their employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he
should be so late.  He was not in his best spirits, but seemed
trying to improve them; and, at last, made himself talk nonsense
very agreeably.  They were looking over views in Swisserland.
</p>

<p id="id1038736"><span id="id578916"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,” said he. 
“I shall never be easy till I have seen some of these places. 
You will have my sketches, some time or other, to look at—or my tour
to read—or my poem.  I shall do something to expose myself.”
</p>

<p id="id1038726"><span id="id578922"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“That may be—but not by sketches in Swisserland.  You will
never go to Swisserland.  Your uncle and aunt will never allow
you to leave England.”
</p>

<p id="id1038741"><span id="id578933"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“They may be induced to go too.  A warm climate may be prescribed
for her.  I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad. 
I assure you I have.  I feel a strong persuasion, this morning,
that I shall soon be abroad.  I ought to travel.  I am tired
of doing nothing.  I want a change.  I am serious, Miss Woodhouse,
whatever your penetrating eyes may fancy—I am sick of England—
and would leave it to-morrow, if I could.”
</p>

<p id="id1038750"><span id="id578940"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“You are sick of prosperity and indulgence.  Cannot you invent
a few hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?”
</p>

<p id="id1038748"><span id="id578951"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I sick of prosperity and indulgence!  You are quite mistaken. 
I do not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged.  I am
thwarted in every thing material.  I do not consider myself at all
a fortunate person.”
</p>

<p id="id1038766"><span id="id578965"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. 
Go and eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well. 
Another slice of cold meat, another draught of Madeira and water,
will make you nearly on a par with the rest of us.”
</p>

<p id="id1038774"><span id="id578972"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“No—I shall not stir.  I shall sit by you.  You are my best cure.”
</p>

<p id="id1038780"><span id="id578981"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;—you will join us. 
It is not Swisserland, but it will be something for a young
man so much in want of a change.  You will stay, and go with us?”
</p>

<p id="id1038759"><span id="id578994"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening.”
</p>

<p id="id1038793"><span id="id579003"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning.”
</p>

<p id="id1038788"><span id="id579012"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“No—It will not be worth while.  If I come, I shall be cross.”
</p>

<p id="id1038804"><span id="id579021"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Then pray stay at Richmond.”
</p>

<p id="id1038807"><span id="id579029"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“But if I do, I shall be crosser still.  I can never bear to think
of you all there without me.”
</p>

<p id="id1038815"><span id="id579039"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself. 
Chuse your own degree of crossness.  I shall press you no more.”
</p>

<p id="id1038809"><span id="id579050"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected. 
With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill;
others took it very composedly; but there was a very general distress
and disturbance on Miss Fairfax’s disappearance being explained. 
That it was time for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with
a short final arrangement for the next day’s scheme, they parted. 
Frank Churchill’s little inclination to exclude himself increased
so much, that his last words to Emma were,
</p>

<p id="id1038826"><span id="id579060"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Well;—if you wish me to stay and join the party, I will.”
</p>

<p id="id1038824"><span id="id579066"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from
Richmond was to take him back before the following evening.
</p>



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